


Irony and Cyanide

by derangedfangirl



Category: Repo! The Genetic Opera (2008)
Genre: Dark, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Psychological Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-10
Updated: 2011-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:17:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derangedfangirl/pseuds/derangedfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They gulp at the red kool-aide, and he waits for them to taste the cyanide.  Post-RTGO, Graverobber-centric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He hasn’t been living under a rock.

 

No, his most recent residences are as follows: shitty apartment, abandoned warehouse, and the occasional dumpster.

 

But no one can accuse him of being out of the loop.

 

They’ve been airing the footage of the Genetic Opera 24/7 for weeks now, and he can’t decide what it provokes more; his twisted sense of humor or his gag reflex.

 

He settles for saluting it with his drink, lips twisted into a black smile, as he passes another holo-board. Horrific images, viscera and decay are splashed across it for the ever-discerning public to consume. As per usual. It’s fitting, too, that Rotti Largo’s death would be one of blood and opulent ruin; the same sort of fucked up media circus that had made him the most powerful man on the planet. Watching the masses gobble it up like the sheep they are makes a vicious grin split his face every, every time.

 

They gulp at the red kool-aide, and he waits for them to taste the cyanide.

 

Fuck, he feels a bit sorry for the kid, though. She probably doesn't see the same humor in it.

He recognizes her, despite her efforts to eradicate any resemblance. She may have gotten rid of her hair (it _is_ short- it makes her look like an elf or something), and she’s drowning in a ratty sweater that was probably her father’s, and her face has become harsh and angular in a way that has nothing to do with lack of food and everything to do with grief, but she’s still innocent in a way that he hasn’t seen in a long fucking time.

 

She’s been broken, but she’s never truly doubted that she’d knit back together again. People have hurt her worse than she’d ever imagined they could, and still she trusts. Resilient.

 

Horrendously stupid.

 

So when she shows up again, looking like she’s holding a howl of grief inside her through sheer force of will, fishnet clad legs slinking beneath the tattered grey knit, he loads the zydrate gun evenly, never breaking eye contact.

 

Might make her forget for a little while, at least.

 

“How’s it goin’, kid?”

 

She didn’t think he’d remember her. He can tell. Her eyes flash with something like recognition for only a moment before returning to blank anguish. Or maybe just blank.

 

“I can’t pay.” She says bluntly, shivering a little as she wraps her thin arms around herself. Then she squares her too-small shoulders and gives him what is probably supposed to be a suggestive little smirk but comes off more like a grimace.

 

“First time’s free.” He murmurs, and watches the expressions flicker across her pale face. Relief and disappointment and blind, crippling terror. And he realizes. She wants him to make her hurt, just as badly as she wants him to chase the hurt away. He swallows, jerking his eyes away. Seventeen. She’ll be back.

 

“Where’s it hurt, darlin’?” He asks automatically, a mischievous leer spreading across his face. It’s a good expression, and it falls across his features easily, comfortable like an old habit. Her lips quirk up into the barest hint of a smile, looking up at him with deadened eyes, like a porcelain doll, and he thinks perhaps her sense of irony is better developed than he’d guessed-

 

Silently, she lays her hand on her chest, over her heart.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just, um, need something to take the edge off, you know?

It’s exactly a week and three days later when she comes back. He’s not _counting_ or some bullshit, but he’s just picked up a fresh harvest, and he keeps a very strict schedule.

She’s haggard, and he can tell that she’s been fighting this since the first hit wore off; maybe because she can’t pay, maybe because she’s afraid of getting addicted. She’s probably told herself that she obviously doesn’t need it, it’s been over a week, and-

“I just, um, need something to take the edge off, you know?”

Her eyes plead with him to understand. He just smiles, another generic expression that for some reason makes relief wash over her face.

She should probably be gauging her patterns of behavior by somebody who isn’t a drug dealer, but, then again, it isn’t really his problem. He hops off the dumpster easily.

Somebody- he can’t remember who- told him she’d been locked in her house all her life. Then her father died, the only person she’d ever known, and now she’s stumbling around like an abandoned puppy. He sighs a little, inwardly, at that. She won’t last long.

Shame.

“Cash first, sweetheart.”

“I- I can’t… I mean, I don’t have any…” she stutters, a deep blush staining her cheeks.

He catches her eyes, and it throws her off guard, but not nearly so much as when he taps her chin playfully with his knuckle. “Sorry, kid,” (and he knows he sounds it, because he perfected sincerity years ago) “I gotta eat, too…”

It’s a good line with the younger ones- it humanizes him. Building rapport.  Psychological bullshit and whatnot.

That tremulous, dead-eyed smile crosses her face again, and this time it’s edged in desperation. She twists the hem of her sweater in her fingers, then catches herself and looks up at him through her lashes, hiking it up an inch or so. “I- Maybe there’s something else I could do?”

Her voice wavers, and the blind hope in her face makes him feel like he’s been punched in the gut.

She hasn’t got a goddamn clue what she’s offering.

It shouldn’t matter. It hasn’t stopped him before, and she could do a hell of a lot worse -he’s no sadist- he could make it good for her. He opens his mouth, preparing to accept her offer.  And he meets her eyes, tongue darting across his lower lip, because he's egotistical and wants to make her want him and not just the zydrate.

Oh fucking hell.

Big dark eyes, doe eyes, looking up at him like he’d hung the fucking moon, begging him not to steal the stars away, filled with such... resignation that he can’t rip his gaze away.

“Where you sleepin’ tonight, kid?” comes out instead, and if he could stare at his own brain incredulously, he would.

She tilts her head, confused and maybe a little suspicious. “What?”

“I said, ‘where are you sleeping tonight?’” he repeats, enunciating a touch sardonically.

“I, um… why?”

“Because it’s fucking freezing out, that’s why.”

Following his logic, she still looks more than a little shocked, and the barest hint of a frown crossing her lips, but she shrugs slightly. “Dunno.”

“Don’t you have a house?” he asked, wondering why the hell she wouldn’t just go sleep in a proper bed, a house with heat and probably a full pantry.

“I can’t go back there. It’s too- it’s too quiet. I just… I can’t.” she mutters, staring at the ground.

He nods. “Well, congratulations. You just got yourself a room for the night.”

“Are you, um…?” she’s completely at a loss- she had obviously expected to blow him in an alley, get her hit, and be done with it. Now he was offering her a place to stay? She looks wary, even more than before, about to say no-

But she catches a glimpse of the blue glow, faint from the inside of his pocket and nods mutely instead, eyes fixed on it (and on him) like she’s in a trance.

They’re halfway to a motel before he realizes that he hasn’t got a fucking clue what he’s planning to do with her. But something in him rebels at the thought of finding her corpse in the morning, frozen, or worse. It’s somewhere around where he figures his conscience should be, and it twinges. She’s just too damn tiny.

Flickering greenish streetlights throw weird shadows onto her face, and she almost looks like a ghost.

  


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dirt never quite seems to come out from underneath his fingernails.

The stringy looking woman at the counter leers at Shilo and slaps a key into Graverobber’s calloused palm.  The impressive mole on her neck wobbles disconcertingly.  He smirks in reply, seeing no reason to confirm or deny, just like his lawyer always advised.  His eyes slide to Shilo; does she notice the predatory cast of his mouth as she leans against him like that?  

Interesting.

"I expect privacy, you understand."  Well, that sounded pretentious.

The woman looks almost offended.  "Of course."

Turning on his heel, he looks at Shilo, who’s chewing her lip, presumably seriously rethinking her decision to come with him. He idly considers reassuring her, but he doubts that anything she’s afraid of is precisely unlikely to happen, so he just gives her a little half-smile and leads her toward the stairs.

When he feels a little cold hand lacing fingers through his, he damn near misses a step.

Her eyes are aimed straight ahead, and he stares at her for a good ten seconds before shaking his head and continuing up toward the room. Her hand is tiny in his, and her wrist is so small that it feels like he could snap it with a twitch of his fingers.

She lets go of his hand when they stop in front of the door, still determinately not looking at him as he unlocks it and steps in. The thought of sheets and an actual bed are enough to make him grin, and he steps aside, motioning her in. She sits on the very edge of the bed, looking ready to bolt, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. Her hands twist themselves together, and she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

“So… what do we do now?” she asks in a halting voice, clearly making an effort to be brazen, but it doesn’t work, especially now that they’re alone, away from the dark obfuscation of the alley. She picks at the bedspread distractedly, garish pink roses beneath her fingertips. “Do I still pay first?” she mutters, not looking at him.

“Now? Now… I’m gonna make use of the hot water.” He says, intentionally misinterpreting the question as he peels off his boots and pads toward the bathroom. “We’ll talk payment when I’m done.”

With that, he turns, leaving her alone on the bed, her eyes burning into his back all the way.

He stays in the shower until the water runs clear; the brown and red and gray, rusty colored blood and indefinable grime swirling down the drain like an isolated hurricane.

The dirt never quite seems to come out from under his fingernails.

When he finally turns off the water, his fingers have gone all wrinkled and his skin is bright pink; raw and clean. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he wrings out his dreads and glances in the mirror. A perpetual smudge of eyeliner remains, but other than that, he looks more or less normal; albeit with multicolored hair. It’s a strange thing to see, normality.  Picking up a little white hand-towel, he scrubs his teeth with it, suddenly conscious of his not-so-pearly whites.  

He steps out the door, grabbing his clothes on the way out and throwing them absently on a chair. Her eyes snap up to his, but they don’t stay there for long- they drift down, and she’s frozen on the bed, gaze fixed with something like fear on the towel around his waist. “So I guess I pay now.” she whispers roughly, looking terrified and resigned, and maybe just a little bit excited, because now she’ll get her hit, at least. He shakes his head minutely

“Grab a shower, kid. Bet it’s been a while since you had hot water, too.”

For the first time tonight, a hint of irritation crosses her face. He wonders if it’s because he’s not hooking her up, or because he’s not doing what she expects. Finally she nods and stands, lingering for a second with her fingertips brushing the doorknob as though she might say something, before disappearing into the bathroom. The door shuts behind her with a quiet click, and he’s left with a silent, empty room.

He fiddles absently with a vial of Zydrate, rolling it back and forth in his palm, twiddling it through his fingers as if he’s performing a magic trick. Slight of hand. Now you see it, now you don’t.

She’ll come out of the bathroom soon. Part of him almost hopes she’ll remember her dad’s words. “Go and change the world for me…”  
(And it’s sort of sickening that the whole planet was privy to that. It makes the moment cheap, a garish imitation like everything else.)

Part of him almost hopes that she’ll come out of the bathroom, full of little-girl earnestness, and tell him that she has to go home.

Something in the back of his mind shouts at him to leave right now.

He doesn’t.

He just closes his eyes and waits.  
 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She'll be bruised and he'll be scratched to all hell tomorrow morning.

When he becomes aware again, it's to the sensation of a small hand rubbing his prick through the towel.

A low groan rumbles in his chest, and he arches up into the touch- hesitant and careful, just enough to turn him on, no where near enough to get him off. He grunts something that might be "Harder," and he figures it must be because that sweet pressure increases, and he's openly grinding into her hand...

All at once, he realizes where he is and who he's with, and his eyes snap open, inky blue meeting deep brown. His hand closes over hers abruptly, stilling it, though not quite pulling it away.

"What's wrong?" she whispers, sitting back on her haunches. His eyes flick downward, and he realizes he can see the curve of her ass beneath the cheap white towel, a swell of breast where it gaps a little. He bites his lower lip, eyes falling halfway closed under the barrage of images his brain is providing; how those pale thighs would tremble when he touched her, just how far down that blush would extend.

“What are you doing?” he asks instead, rising onto his elbows, voice gone husky. She doesn’t pull her hand away, and he has to fight against the urge to pin her beneath him and fuck her hard.

“I don’t know.” She replies honestly, a little nervous smile crossing her face. The vial of Zydrate is warm where it’s been clenched in his fist. He drops it onto the table beside him, and watches her eyes follow it, trancelike, before snapping back to his.

Instead of responding, he just pulls her down into a kiss, and he knows it’s nothing like a first kiss should be; sweet and awkward, maybe a little bit fumbling. No, it’s piercing, designed to make her want more; calculated to ignite her body. He explores the roof of her mouth, reveling in how warm, how soft, how _clean_ she is as he pulls her down on top of him, his hand splayed across her ass, drawing his fingernails across it. She moans into his mouth, sounding a little surprised, and grinds into him lightly.

She didn’t know this could feel good for _her_ , too.

He smirks against her lips and pulls away a little. “No idea what you’re getting into, little girl…” he purrs lowly, a dark smile spreading across his mouth as he rolls her over, flipping their positions.  A little mewling sigh followed by a surprisingly firm hand tangling in his hair and guiding his face back down to hers confirms his previous suspicions of Daddy Issues.  The smile grows.  So he grabs her wrists, pinning both her arms with one hand, stifling a giggle as she arches up against him insistently, grinds against him, and he presses his hips into hers, grinning as he’s rewarded with a low groan and a small undulation of her hips. His lips return, nipping lightly then soothing with his tongue. She returns the kiss enthusiastically, if with little finesse, and he feels himself growing rather impossibly harder. Their mouths continue their exploration as he trails his hand slowly down her throat, her chest, fingers hooking under the edge of the towel. It falls away easily, and the sudden pause that being naked gives her is palpable.

Before she can think about it too much, he slides his hand lower, brushing teasingly over a rosy nipple, already puckered from the cold. Her lips part in a gasp, her back arching, fingers digging into his back.  "Again."  Her voice is raspy, but the word is unmistakable.  

He relishes in the pinpricks of pain, in her incredible responsiveness, and throws her a lazy smile before dipping down to lave his tongue across her nipple, closing it between his lips, eliciting a rough moan.

“You like that?” he murmurs against her chest, knowing she’ll feel it everywhere. She arches up into him again. “Ye-” she begins, only to cut herself off with a whimpering gasp as his mouth migrates to pay the same homage to the other side. Those fingers tangle themselves in his hair, tugging sharply.

A little groan escapes him, and he nips lightly at the tender underside of her breast, smiling at the sounds she’s making, her hitched breathing and flushed cheeks.

Slowly, tortuously, he kisses his way back up her body, back to those soft lips as his hands slide downward, wrapping around her thighs, spreading her legs so he can rest between them. His right continues, until his fingers are slick and he's stroking her like he's playing a guitar. She cries out and arches up hard against him, her eyes squeezing shut.  
"Faster- god, faster-" she whimpers, circling her hips in counterpoint. He smirks and slips two fingers into her, licking his lips unconsciously as she keens, bucking against his hand.

"Not as innocent as I thought." he murmurs, amusement and lust soaking his tone.  The words sound cliched and porny even to his own ears, but she doesn't seem to notice.  

"Not- ohh... Not much else to do, locked in your room all your life." she pants, breathing speeding up as his left hand tweaks a nipple, and he almost moans as he feels her clamp around his fingers- god, so tight...

He lets out a husky bark of laughter.

"I guess not..."

He leans over, nipping and biting at her neck. She'll have a bruise there tomorrow.

She whimpers, on a knife's edge between pain and pleasure, and he’s finished with the slow and gentle teasing shtick. She wanted this, wanted to feel (and not to feel), so who is he to deny her?

Reaching down, he removes the towel from around his waist. She stills for a moment, drawing her lower lip between her teeth- he briefly considers how nice that sweet little mouth would be, but slamming his dick down her throat at this stage in the game... Well, the goal isn't to scare the girl, after all.

“Shh…” he murmurs, pulling his fingers out of her and bracing his arm above her shoulder on the bed. He’s glad she’s so wet- it’ll make it easier on both of them. He wonders briefly if she’s a virgin, but dismisses the thought almost immediately. It’s irrelevant. Slowly, he guides himself into her, and Christ, she’s so tight, so warm- she lets out a little whimper, clenching around him, and whether it’s from pleasure or pain he’s not sure, and frankly doesn’t much care as long as she keeps squeezing him like that-

He looks down into her eyes, and they’re nearly black, pools of confusion and lust and pain. “You alright?” he asks lowly, cutting himself off with a little groan as he pushes in the rest of the way. He wonders briefly what the hell made him ask that, and chalks it up to the fact that her eyes remind him of another place and time. He leans down, kissing her deeply.

“I’m- yeah… I’m fine.” She murmurs, still looking slightly uncomfortable, but he ignores that in favor of the wet heat engulfing him so perfectly. He thrusts, shallowly at first, helping her get used to the feeling of being stretched, but as her expression softens into a pleasure so akin to pain the two are almost indistinguishable from each other, he can’t help but drive into her a little deeper, a little harder…

One hand goes down to circle her clit, rubbing against it firmly, and he feels her clench around him again, a little strangled sound erupting from both their mouths at the sensation, the friction building between them again.  
“Mo- oh, please, more-” she gasps, her nails drawing down his back once again, leaving fiery trails of heat in their wake.

She’ll be bruised and he’ll be scratched to hell tomorrow morning.

He speeds up, one hand tangling in her hair, the cheap headboard slapping against the wall, and she cries out, rolling her hips against him, hooking her legs around his waist. A rough sound, almost a growl, erupts from his throat as the move pushes him deeper, and he’s practically slamming into her now, reveling in the way those noises are fairly ripping themselves out of her throat, spilling over her lips like the richest wine. She’s close, so close, and he won’t be far behind, because he can feel her beginning to spasm around him, crying out his name. His eyes fall to where she’s stretched tight around his cock, and as her teeth sink into his shoulder, he goes temporarily blind. His blood is like fire, everything focusing on this, this moment, and _Christ_ , it feels like the top of his skull is about to fly off, a groan so low it’s nearly subvocal- his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Boneless and panting, he collapses on top of her, feeling the last shuddering aftershocks of her orgasm run through her as he begins to soften.  
They just lay there for a few moments, breathing hard.

Finally, he rolls off of her, grabbing the towel from where it landed at the foot of the bed and cleans himself off. Silently, he hands the towel to Shilo, who just looks a little bit confused.  
“Wipe yourself off, darlin’, or I can guarantee you’ll regret it later.” He murmurs, feeling a satiated smile crawl across his face. She just nods and does so, gingerly. He notices a spot of red on the towel before she crumples it and throws it away. He can’t quite bring himself to regret it, but throws her a concerned look anyway. “You alright?”  
Her mouth turns up slightly. Eyes still devoid of any sort of meaningful emotion. “Fine. Just a little sore…” Her voice is a little muzzled.

He snorts a little laugh, letting his eyes drift closed. He wishes for the briefest instant that this had somehow made her come alive again, but the thought is a vague, half-formed thing, and it drifts out of his conscious mind before he can consider it.

Somewhere beside him, her breathing evens out. His eyes slide over to her face, and her features have softened in sleep; she looks peaceful, younger somehow. He watches that face, the soft lips still looking bruised, the dusky lashes against her cheek.

Then he shakes himself, disgusted at the ridiculous display of sentimentality. And, fuck. She’s asleep. And he’s not the type to not uphold his end of the bargain. Damn. Heaving a sigh, he walks back to the bathroom- two showers in one night never hurt anyone, after all.

When he emerges, clothes slung on haphazardly, she’s still asleep, curled up into a little ball on the bed. He walks over, fully intending to prod her awake so that he can leave already. Instead, he finds himself pulling the blanket up around her, covering her with it quietly.

He drops a card onto the side table, picking up the vial of zydrate and pocketing it. ‘Consider this an IOU. You know where to find me’ is scrawled across it on one side.

With one last glance to the sleeping figure, he steps out the door and into the frigid blackness of night.  
 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucking the vial carefully into his pocket, he stands, knees creaking in protest, and walks away.

He finds her body a week later.

She’s sprawled across the ground in an alley, swollen, bloated in death, her skin a pallid, icy blue that’s spattered with blood and bruises like the finger-painting of a demented two year old.  Her limbs are twisted into sick angles as though someone had flung her there like a broken toy and hadn’t bothered to pick her back up again.  Blood congeals around her head in a sticky black halo; a morbid, fucked up parody of a wasted angel. 

Or just another dead kid.   

Either way, her hands are fucking _shredded._ He can see bone peeking through severed muscle around her fingers, one palm decorated with a deep, vicious gash.  She’s got sadistic bruises around her wrists and thighs, and he can see the echo of a handprint on her malformed cheek, jutting awkwardly where her jaw was broken.  

A flash of memory- his lips on that sweetly curved jaw line, the smell of girl and sex and cheap hotel soap. 

Her clothes are in tatters around her; a pale breast exposed- he has the nonsensical urge to cover her, somewhere in the back of his head, like an itch.

She doesn’t look peaceful.  She doesn’t look like she’s sleeping.  She looks dead. 

His boots are slick with blood and shit and what might be vomit as he crouches beside the disfigured corpse of a little girl who’d had dead eyes long before tonight.

He kind of wishes he could be surprised.

Curled in her fist is something whitish; a scrap of paper, maybe.  Rigor has set in, but he extricates it with a few sickening cracks.  Scrawled on one side, “Consider this an IOU-”  
He stops reading and throws it to the ground beside her in disgust.  A fly buzzes somewhere near his left ear.

He stares into her mangled face, and his gut has turned to ice.

But his hands are steady as he prepares the syringe. 

It’s easy.  So easy. 

Blue light floods the alley, pure and luminous.  And her eyes are on him.  Blank.  Like a shot doe. 

He presses a brief kiss to her cold forehead, tender in death the way he never would’ve been if she were still breathing. 

Tucking the vial carefully into his pocket, he stands, knees creaking in protest, and walks away.

It’s not until hours later that he realizes he’s still clenching the glass tight in his fist.  


End file.
